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The Prostitue - Part V

Clarissa seemed remarkably calm despite the interruption, which is more than can be said for Mayor Arbuckle. He was forced to make his way out to the door of the bathroom, with nothing more covering his modesty than a Stetson, his spurs clinking on the floor as he shuffled along and locked himself inside. Quaid marched into the room, and in no uncertain terms, grabbed the whore, who had managed to slip on negligee, which did little to cover her modesty. She faced him calmly and bravely, more his equal than any of the women of the village had ever been. He grabbed her arm forcefully and threw her onto the bed, much to the shock of the wives who huddled behind him like a gaggle of scared chicks. “This is no place for a heathen whore,” Quaid bellowed, his voice heard all along the hallway and into the main bar of the saloon. Clarissa appeared neither frightened, not insulted. “Such a grand lynch mob reverend,” she quipped, “whoever said the church was a place of forgiveness?” She lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply.
“The house of God is forgiving of the penitent, not those who gain from indulging in it. How dare you question this forgiveness? Get out, else we will have you thrown out by cart this very evening,” the reverend retorted, her indifference seeming to drive his rage ever further.
“Reverend,” she said slowly, “all I do is provide a service. And in that way I am very much like you. You might say that we are both needed by the people of this town.”
“I do not make financial gain from the act of sin!” he screamed.
“You should try it reverend - you might do far better than in the rickety old church,” she said, putting out the end of the cigarette in an ashtray at the bedside. It is not often that a man of the cloth is moved to violence, but at these words, the Reverend could contain his anger any longer. He reached up and slapped the harlot, clean across the face. Gasps arose from the women behind him. A moment of silence descended onto the room, as Clarissa looked back at the Priest. Their eyes met in mutual disdain, and with that, he grabbed her by the hair, and forced her towards the doorway. His violence continued as he threw her along the long corridor, much to the amazement of the other guests at the inn, and the men folk who had gathered rather shamefacedly behind their wives. The wives were more stunned by this act of aggression than the men, and the most astounded person was the reverend Quaid himself. And yet the barrage did not stop until the harlot was lying in the dirt in front of the saloon. “Get a cart and drag this whore into the desert,” the good Reverend Quaid heard himself shouting towards the livery. No one dared disobey, and so a cart was brought forward and the woman loaded upon it. Clarissa herself had experienced far worse in her life, and was not so much shocked at the violence of the churchman, but fearful of the baying crowd he had excited. As the cart drew up, there was no need for force; she stood, simply by her own force, rising onto the cart with as much dignity as her tattered clothes would allow.

She lolled from side to side, looking almost at rest as the carriage navigated the divets and potholes in the dusty road. The shouts of the women folk though more vitriolic than ever faded form her hearing, and became more an undecierphabale din, than any particular words. The barbs of the abuse concealed in the cacophony did at points fly out a dig at her pride, but only momentarily before they faded back into the mindless sound coming from the crowd. The cart headed on, driven by one the slaves who had known the delights of Clarissa. He bowed his head in shame as he drove her in the direction of the town boundary. The crowd followed for a while, ensuring that she might not get off the carriage and return to the saloon unseen. But as the carriage arrived nearer the edge of the town limit, she bade the driver stop, resting her hand gently on his muscular arm. The horses we braying as she stood and the entire crowd went silent, as through the act was unthinkable enough in itself. And into this silence she began.
“I do not bear any man in this great town any evil, despite the humiliation and the shame that.”
“How dare you speak of shame?” the Reverend Bellowed from the head of the crowd.
“I dare, reverend, because I know that your town will suffer far worse than I have, and when all is done, the townsfolk of Goodson will not be able to show their faces in any church or chapel across the whole of the mid west, without the memory of this day haunting them.”
“Get her out of here,” the reverend bellowed at the driver, confident in his victory, and the restoration of faith to the good town.

And so it was, with this last exchange that the whore who had taken up residence in the saloon was spurned from Goodson. This was a particularly great day for the women of the town, who now felt that they might be able to return to their conjugal duties and satisfy both themselves, and the men folk who toiled for them so hard on the fields and in the barns. They were sure that now their men would return to them with an ardour reinvigorated and restored by the demonstration of loyalty that they had provided to them.

Unfortunately, the hopes of the women did not become the reality of life in the town. Take Molly for example, who would retire to bed early after putting the children to bed. Each night she would ask Stephen, “Will you come to bed darling?” and each night Stephen managed to come up with excuses about the strain on his back, the soreness of his limbs, and the general malaise that had recently taken over him. And she was not the only one of the wives, who had to face such answers from her husband. Indeed all of them, to the last faced such a host of answers that it became impossible to reason what could be the cause of such a mass drain on the towns libido. Indeed, when some the women did finally manage to coax the men into enacting their desires, they found that they were resignedly lack lustre to the task, and though they were acting out the motions with a total lack of passion that the women craved so dearly. So it seemed that the woes of the women had multiplied further until there seemed that nothing could be done. And not even that nothing could be done, but that they could not surmise through all their chatter, and gossip, their banter and bellyaching, the reason behind the behaviour of the men. The reverend for his part was of no use in this most important matter, since his was the restoration of Godliness to the town, and he would simply shrug his shoulders, palms towards the heavens and say that God’s will be done. Indeed he urged the women not to pressure the men, since this was often a source of anxiety that could lead to an inability to perform in any case.

This all led to a tension in the town, even stronger than when Clarissa had been in residence at the saloon, for at least then the men would still engage passionately with the women. But now the dearth of relations was taking its toll once more on the wretched women of the town. The reason for the action (or lack thereof) of the menfolk came to the attention of the women quite by accident. It was brought about as a result of Molly’s rather unsavoury tendency to drop eaves at the faintest possible opportunity, combined with Mayor Arbuckle’s voice which had a habit to boom and bellow, and though wonderful for the church choir and for the town fete, proved useless in times where discretion was the order of the day. In this particular case, the Mayor had cornered Reverend Quaid as he walked from his office on Main St to the local area courthouse, where he was to give a character witness for some old case that is neither pertinent nor interesting. “Reverend Quaid,” he bellowed across the road, much to the start of the preacher, who was inspecting the shoes on his horse with the smith.
“Good afternoon Mr. Mayor,” the reverend beamed through the hot and uncomfortable sun of the mid western summer. “Reverend, will you walk with me a while. There is something that troubles my mind ever so, and I hoped that you might be able to assuage it before it becomes a more…physically substantial problem.”
The intrigue alone was enough to get the Reverend to leave the horse and fall in step with the Mayor. They began the walk up to the local courthouse, which sat at the very far end of the town from the blacksmiths.
“I’m am always in the service of the servants of the Lord,” Quaid replied, “and I wouldn’t be doing my duty if I was to let one of the good flock flounder without lifting a finger.”
“Well, you see reverend…its kind of…well, it’s a rather personal issue you understand.”
“Say no more,” the Reverend chuckled as he quickened his step.
“I shall endeavour to help in any way I can, and I assure you, I am nothing if I am not discreet.”

“Well you see Reverend…It’s a rather embarrassing sort of problem.” Arbuckle leaned in conspiratorially, trying his best to whisper, “The kind that’s mighty tough to be able to discuss in polite conversation.” The reverend noticed the large patches of sweat that had begun to radiate from the Mayors underarms, and decided that despite the heat this must be an issue that was concerning the Mayor gravely, because only the slave boys on the field would sweat the likes he was seeing now. He decided that out in the street, with the passing of the residents was perhaps not the best place to discuss such a seemingly delicate situation as was obviously irking the Mayor. “Perhaps, Mr Arbuckle, you can do with a brief rest, here beneath the back porch to get out of the sun, “ he suggested, pulling the Mayor off Main street into a little alley that let to the back of Grant’s general store. A few young boys were smoking cigarettes in the alley.
“Why that’s a fine idea Reverend, and you always are so full of fine ideas,” he said, wiping his rotund face with a handkerchief. The Reverend began to run through some of his favourite chapters of the good booking, wondering which one would provide him with the moral direction that the wretch clearly sought. ¬¬“Perhaps you might be seated and collect your thoughts Mr. Mayor,” he said soothingly, as the boys took note of the men and sauntered off to loiter about in another alley. They found two old apple boxes at the back of the store and arranged them so as to be able to sit comfortably in the shade.

And all this while, Molly was inside Grant’s grocery store and chatting away gayley, as she shopped for her weekly needs.

“What is it that brings you here Mrs Molly,” Grant asked smiling inanely, “not that I’m complaining’ you understand,” Grant would never have complained, due to his keen fondness for the young Molly, which, on some of the lonelier evenings he would imagine might become more than simply fondness. Indeed the thoughts proved mighty incendiary to his ardour and would amount to an excitement that, were other people in his presence prove more than a little embarrassing.
“You’re always more than welcome, and I don’t see so such of you since you got that little negro boy,” he said, already feeling his mind drift from the inventory on the counter to thoughts of a more stirring nature.
“Pah,” she replied, “that little nigger went and got himself a frightful bout of something or other, and he’s stuck up in bed while good folk are working the length of God’s day,” she replied, a slight edge of ire in her otherwise good natured tone. “Now tell me, do you have any more of that soft soap that you carried last week? I just found the perfume of lavender was so lovely.”

“I think we have it up in the store room our back,” he absently replied, still deep in the thoughts of Molly’s slip such.
“Would you be so kind as to pop in and grab me a couple bars?” Molly asked. And the question hit him like a bolt from the blue, for it would force Grant to stand from behind the counter, and so not spare his ardour, which was not throbbing from becoming noticed by the God fearing lady. His mind raced as to a way out of this predicament, but not wanting to disappoint the lovely lady, he felt compelled to reply sooner rather than later. “I’m such an old coot and a fool that last week, I tripped and near put my back out. I’m under strict instruction not to stretch it, and I’m afraid the box of soft soap is right up on the top shelf in the store room.”

A Review of ‘Public Enemies’ Dir: Michael Mann

Michael Mann has been one of the few directing voices coming from Hollywood in recent years. His immutable, high-octane style, invariably genre films have earnt him a reputation as a stalwart of action films internationally. It was with enthusiasm that I went for a late night viewing of Public Enemies, starring Johnny Depp. And with a measure equal to my expectation was I let down by the subsequent two and a half hours of celluloid that ran through the projector.

Though perhaps film is a flawed description, since most of the film was in effect shot digitally on the F23 camera, much to its detriment. The lush design, costumes and locations were severely let down by the poor camera quality and jerky camera operating. This is not to question the use of handheld films per se, but only when story requires it. Thus during the opening sequence this is completely excusable, but not during subtle romantic sequences such as the date between Depp and Cotillard early on in the film. Most objectionable, however, in regards to the camera work, is its function to distract the audience from the story and characters, rather than augment. This left me constantly wondering whether this movie was shot on a miniDV camera rather than supposedly state of the art digital cameras.

In regards to the screenplay, while the lack of exposition serves the mood and setting well, there is little character movement, and the Dillinger character is written with little of the forgiving Robin Hood personality of his legend. Coupled with a thin romance with a character who feels more like a plot device than a human being, and we have little scope for character empathy.
This is not to say that the acting is at all bad. The performances are well above par, with a notable comment for Stephen Graham (of This is England fame) as the psychotic Baby Face Nelson. Christian Bale is usually dry, but he never has been much of an actor anyway, and Depp naturally provides screen presence and charm.

Unfortunately by the time you are aware of the acting its too late. A sad disappointment from an usually able crafts-mann (pun intended).

The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part IV

Over the following days Jacob tried desperately not to discuss the events of that night. And yet his zeal, his ego and youthful indiscretion conspired against this intention. One afternoon, when at dice with a few of the other negro boys, the discussion turned inevitably to women, and indeed the stranger, who for the second week running hadn’t attended church. His revelation to the other young men was met with slack jawed awe or incredulous jeering, and continued until Clarissa ambled past the crowd of them, and into the telegraph office where they had congregated. A sombre silence fell over the boys as she walked past, and it remained a moment too long after she had walked past, for they had all seem distinctly the rather unsubtle wink that she had flashed Jacob as she passed. And once that moment of silence had passed, the jeering and back slapping began.

In the days that followed the other negro boys, or at least those with sufficient access to funds each made their right of passage to the room at the end of the long wooden corridor. And so the spark of rumour as fired on by the hearsay on the street corners between the Negros. Naturally it didn’t take long before the white farmers heard about the exploits of the young negros, and though many men tell themselves that theirs is not the ilk of such women, the stories recounted by the young boys beggared belief. And still they continued to church on Sundays, and the sermons from Reverend Quaid, and so days passed. Eventually the weakest among the farmers succumbed to temptation, hardly able to believe the debauched stories of the young negro boys. The first of these was Stephen, the blacksmith, whose small workshop sat opposite the saloon and so provided him no end of temptation until it was all too much to bear, and he made the homage to the Clarissa’s door.

And when it rains, so the saying goes, it pours; Stephen had made the trip, and recounted the events of strange lotions, the smell of cinnamon, vanilla and spices to the other men. This inflamed their curiosity and ardour to the point of no return, until slowly, over the next few months, nearly all of the men of the town made the journey into that, now notorious boudoir. This did not go unnoticed by the Reverend, whose disapproval became palpable at his weekly sermons. His focus on the story of Jezebel fell on dead ears, for men in the throws of such excitement are quite deaf to the preaching of the pulpit. Nor had the situation passed the wretched wives, whose loyalty bore into their hearts like daggers, and yet dared not confront their husband, but milled upon the subject at the weekly sewing circle.

Finally, after several months of this quiet façade, the wives gathered resolved that some action must be taken, and Molly was appointed the most appropriate to lead the action. As such Reverend Quaid was invited to the sewing circle. Quaid was a hawkish figure, with narrow spectacles that perched on the end of a thin and distinctly sloping nose. His beady eyes inspired more fear than admiration in the congregation, and his booming sermons on hellfire often led to the tears and bawling from the younger children.

“We must do something, “ Jenny ventured, “I haven’t been with Thomas for nearly three weeks,” she admitted, her cheeks flushed in equal measure with embarrassment and frustration. Jenny was the most recently wed of all the wives, the, nuptials having been completed only three months earlier, and presided over by the Reverend himself. For his part, Quaid’s presence at the sewing circle made the wives feel that a powerful ally had arrived among them, who might be able to help them win back the affections of their husbands.

So it was schemed, that they would make their way down to the saloon that very night, united and in a large group, for in this way they might be able to exert more pressure on the whore to leave the good town. And so they gathered themselves with as much spirit as they might muster and made the long and dark walk to the saloon. The sight of such a great many women caused any witnesses to pause and gawk, for these were women on a mission and who would only be stopped by God or the devil themselves, and woe betide any devil that crossed such a righteous mob. And so it was that they entered the saloon, fire in their eyes. This was no little shock for Old man Walker and his now many patrons, who say drinking and at cards in the wide space of the saloon. Quaid marched boldly to the bar, and demanded to know where the wanton woman was staying, and after much argument and making a riotous scene forced his way up to her room. Then followed a ridiculous scene, wherein Quaid burst into the room, only to find the mayor of the town, Mr Arbuckle, in flagrante with the tramp – much to dismay of his poor wife who was among the throng of the ladies at the door.

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The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part III

Jacob ran the errand to the hardware store though he was distracted by the events of the afternoon for the rest of the day. Such was his distraction that on his first run he came back with the wrong nails and was sent back, whereupon he purchased the wrong quantity. His mind circled, the smell of the perfume filling his mind more potently than a fever. As the evening drew in, Abraham noticed the distraction in his brother, but his illness had stolen his strength, and was forced to bed to recuperate. Jacob waited until late into the night, when he was sure that everyone would have been off to bed. The scent of her had been something not of his world, and his youthful energy wanted to take up the invitation. He gathered his small savings, and made his way quietly down to the saloon.

As he entered the half dozen patrons who were left in the bar at this hour were taken aback. Jacob, for all his bravado shyly scuttled through the bar, amid the sharp looks twelve eyes, fixed upon him. When asked what his business was, he revealed her was there to see Miss Clarissa. The barman dutifully called up, announcing the guest, a vicious frown growing ever deeper on his brow as he did so. He returned staring at the negro teenager, a look of disdain and envy in equal parts. Finally he nodded slowly, and the boy climbed the stairs and to the room. As he arrived, he knocked gently, with no answer. He knocked again, a little louder, and jumped at the answer that came from within, “It’s open.” His heart was beginning to pound much as it had done earlier that afternoon, and yet this time it seemed to fill him with an excitement that he had not experienced in his young life.

He crept to the door at the end of the long wooden corridor, and stood outside it. An age passed, his heart pounding so hard that he was sure she might mistake it for a knock and beckon him to enter. Finally he summoned all the strength in his arm to reach up and rap the three knocks at the door. Pause, and then her voice worked its way through the wooden door, delicate and soft. “Come in.” He turned the white door-knob, and stepped slowly into the room.

It was a simple room, clean and homely, with flower decorations on the bedclothes, a small side table with a basin and jug, and a dressing table. A small window looked out over the main street beneath, and the room was lit by the yellow gas light of the street outside. The dressing table contained all manner of jars, lotions, potions and so many bottles that it was a veritable apothecary. And strangely, the room was empty. At the far end, opposite the large bed, was a door that led to the bathroom, and a light crept from it into the bedchamber. It was the bathroom, and the sound of bathing could be heard, along with a gently hum of a female voice. Jacob stood in the room, almost at a loss as to what to do, for he daren’t touch anything or be as bold as to sit on the only chair. He shifted uneasily from foot to foot, looking at that point like a child about to be admonished by a stern teacher. His only comfort was the sweet serenade that was being hummed out to the warm night. “Hand me a towel, wont you,” came the interruption, breaking the spell that had caught his mind in it’s grasp. Suddenly shocked he looked around frantically for the towel that was laid out carefully on the fresh sheets. He grabbed it and stepped towards the bathroom door, sticking it through the askew door, in a somewhat ridiculous act of modesty. For her part, Clarissa was used to this false moment of guilt, and let it fall aside much like the water that dripped from her luscious skin.

She stepped out of the round tub, and carelessly dripping onto the floor, crossed the small bathing room to grab the towel nonchalantly from the intruding hand. As she took it, she let her hand come into contact with his, a warm and delicate touch. Shocked at the contact Jacob was excited into boldness, and peered into the bathroom. From behind the door, his view was partially obstructed, but he could make out the curve of her hip, bare and flickering in the candle light that filled the bathroom. Water ran down the skin in rivulets, caressing the firm curves beneath as it made its way down her slender legs, gathering in a swelling pool on the wooden floor. Once she was adequately dry, she turned and made her way out to the bedroom. Jacob was frightened back into the bedroom, as through being attacked by a wild animal. “Don’t look so scared puppy dog,” she calmed, her hair up and patches of wetness still flecking parts of her skin. She stepped towards him, taking his hand that trembled lightly into her calm grip, and led him over to the cool crisp sheets.

No description of the events that took place that night would ever do them justice, and as so it is suffice to say that it was there, among the cool sea of flower patterned sheets at the old saloon, Jacob became a man.

...to be continued....

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The Prostitute - A Short Story - Part II

Some of the men speculated that she was a rich widow, making her way out to California. Other, older and more logical fellows surmised that she was far too young to be a widow, and that she must be an orphan heading to make her fortune. This would have been a logical notion, except for the fact that her obvious affluence, and fine garments suggested that she was anything but a poor orphan. And so the speculation continued through the week, with much expectation for Sunday's service. Goodson was the kind of town that all attended the Reverend's services, dutifully on Sunday's, and this was to be no exception. Indeed it was the only real opportunity that the whole town got to meet, and catch up on gossip and for the children from the adjoining farms to take a break from the work of the warm spring to play. Naturally all were expectant that this new young thing would attend, especially the bolder younger men, who were keep as mustard to get to know whatever they could about her.

And so it was that Sunday rolled in. Jake was in his finest shirt, lovingly ironed that morning by his wife Molly. Their children stood bathed and beaming, the perfect image of cherubic beauty. Stephen was there, his wife Alma standing by his side. Indeed the whole town was there, filing into the pews and awaiting the Reverend. The weather was hot, and the reverend kept the sermon short, for the heat normally bothered the worshipers in the stifling church building. His this Irish accent bellowed through his weekly reading, bouncing around the whitewashed wooden walls and into the ears of the whole town. The only problem was that this week, the town was rather distracted. It was not that they had no interest in Mathew’s gospel, or the Reverend's message that asked the people of the town to do as Jesus did, and resist the temptation faced before him, even in the face of such hunger in the desert.
It was just that the young lady from the saloon was distracting them. But this was a distraction by proxy, for as the town had gathered at the church, she has remained simply in the saloon. It was her absence that has led the congregation to distraction, and by the end of the sermon not one of the congregation could recall any of the sermon recounted to them, such was the strength of whispers, accusations and gossip that had run through the pews on the hot June morning. Even after the service, as they all took lemonade and the children played in the courtyard, the gossip had brought an infamy about this mysterious woman, even before anyone even knew her name or purpose.

Now this infamy had a simple result, for that evening, nearly all the men filed into the saloon, now with a viable subject about which to converse. Some surmised that she must have been ill, and that the warm season was not treating her well. And when she did not descend they all left, certain that this indeed must be the reason to explain her absence from Church.

Another many days passed, and one cool afternoon Jake sent Jacob with an order for nails and some timber into the town. He knew that Jacob, being younger at just eighteen would most likely mill about with the other negro's on similar errands in town. He knew equally well that Jacob was partial to a brief game of dice with them if the opportunity arose, but on this occasion he had no choice, since Abraham had fallen ill with heatstroke. Jacob was partial to the moments of pleasure that a slaves life would yield him, and being more inquisitive and more cock-sure than his older brother, had a lower threshold for temptation. So when he noted the now notorious young lady, taking a walk in the shade down by the stream, he was could not resist the chance. He skipped his way down until he was level with her, deciding that if no one else in the town would talk with her, he would have the guts to be the first.

"Mighty hot for a stroll if you excuse my for sayin'," he ventured by way of small talk. He grinned with such disarming mischief and good humour that she could not help but break into a smile herself.
"I make it a point never to talk about the weather," she replied cutly but still smiling, "for the weather comes about every day, and as such is never novel enough to warrant thought. And besides, if one remain a prisoner of the heat, then one might not leave the house for near enough two months at this time of year." He voice was refined for the most part, but at moments seemed to be affected with a twang of a country girl made good, not that Jacob noticed. Having dropped in step with her, he was now distracted by her full and prominent busom, elevated by the tight whalebone corset, and showed off the curve of her round hips beneath. The light, white dress she wore gently brushed the golden earth as she walked, staining the edges.
"Well...I s'pose....," he managed though his eyes were making a sinner of his soul. They walked on a little in silence. She was untroubled by his presence. The warm wind rushed and blew a ghostly life into the surrounding trees, their leaves caressing one another in the afternoon sunlight.
"Ma'm," he asked, suddenly taken by a bout of shyness. "The town's all talkin' and well...." he paused, at a loss as to the phrasing of such a delicate subject with someone wholly unknown to him. She smiled broadly, sensing his sudden awkwardness. "Yes?" she said encouragingly. He summoned the courage, and yet it was the courage of a child about to take a spoonful of medicine. "Why wasn't you at church on Sund'y?" he blurted. "Was you ill?" he added, almost to excuse the boldness of the preceding question. They walked on in silence, until it became excruciating. Jacob's nerves got the better of him, and he began babbling just to fill the overwhelming silence, "..'cause o' the folks is sayin' that you is sick wit' summin' and the others thinkin' that you is a heathen..." She stopped walking, the simple action cutting his words short. She turned to him slowly and gazed into his boyish face. Beads of sweat were gathering on his brow, glistening in the sunlight, as he looked back at her. "What do you think?" she asked quietly, her breasts gently rising with her breathing. The distraction was too much for the teenager, who had already lost his train of thought. "Er...um...I...I...," he managed, until she raised a slender white finger and placed across his full lips. "Bring a present for Ms. Clarissa this evening and I till tell you all about what I was doing," she whispered, leaning into him, so that her firm breasts touched his chest gently. He sensed the sweet smell of fine soap rise from her finger tip. After what seemed like an eternity she removed it and, replacing it with a soft and slow kiss from her perfumed lips. "Now you better be on your way," she said, staring at him with only the faintest semblance of a smile. He turned, his heart pounding in his chest so loud he was sure it could be heard across the water. After a long gaze over his shoulder, he began to bounce back up to the path into the town centre.

....to be continued.....

Michael Jackson and Me

A strange thing happened to me yesterday. I woke up and Michael Jackson was dead. It was the strangest feeling I have had for a very long time. Obviously I understand that he was a human being, and that his end would come sooner or later, and undoubtedly sooner than my own (his being thirty years my senior), and yet there was a surreal atmosphere that pervaded the reality of the event. I am now living in a world without Michael Jackson. This dawned on me most vividly as I sat watching a tribute doc to his life on T4.

My own relationship with Michael started as far back as I can remember. As a four year old I recall being mesmerized by the moonwalk, attempting to emulate it (to no avail) with my brother on the carpet of my parents apartment in Tehran. All this left us with was frustration and carpet burns. I remember spinning and strutting and yet sure that somehow, no matter how much I practice I would put in, be unable to do it like Michael. We went through the Thriller experience while I was young, and then through Billie Jean and all the other hits of the eighties. This was while I was still living in Tehran during the Iran-Iraq war. My parents would tease me as a child, and ask me to preform my own rendition of the Jackson dancing at parties when guests came round; my own childish version of the routine.

Then coming to London, the relationship continued, through the best way I can describe it is as a long distance affair. I was, I must admit most into Michael in the late eighties, when Bad and Smooth Criminal were the pinnacle of Jackson in my memory. I recall the first birthday party to which I had been invited, a classmate called Juan Pablo Lopez. It was the first time I had been to a birthday party outside my immediate family. I was 10 years old, and I have a vivid recollection of making a Michael Jackson mix tape, it was a black casio tape, with a white labe written in green ink, which was eventually played in the latter half of the party, and by my persistent request.

My uncle owned a pizzeria in Camden through these years, and between 11 and 13 I would make random trips up to hang out there and play through his music collection. The Michael Jackson greatest hits album was always a favourite. This was when I first discovered Dirty Diana, huddled beneath the cash register and endlessly flicking through the tracks of the CD, much to the annoyance of the customers.

Then there were the videos of the nineties. Of greatest note to me was the morphing sequence at the end of 'Black and White', ending with the camera pulling out to show the artifice of the video makers construct. I also loved the drama of the young boy arguing with his parents about the volume of the music at the start of that video; a the non sequiter that somehow attached me to the video in shared and universal adolescent experience. 'Scream' was another favorite, though I suspect that for the hormonal teenager that I was Michael was playing second fiddle to Janet's bikini and breasts.

And from this point Michael really feel off my radar. I recall his trip to the Oxford Union to talk, not because I was there, but because of the queues that spanned from the Union, along Cornmarket Street and all down Broad St, a distance of at least half a kilometer.

Sporadic reprisals have sprung up over recent years, but for me the core of the Michael Jackson that I knew ended in the early ninties. His most important tracks to me were 'Bad', and 'Smooth Criminal', simply because they somehow defined that period in my life, moving to London, and yet still being able to bring Michael with me.

And this is the genius of Michael Jackson. Just looking at the facebook posts when the news broke, you realised that everyone has their own, personal relationship with him. Peter Morely commented on the Newsnight special about the different faces of Jackson, and yet it is somehow so much more personal than that. Everyone can chart the interconnection of their own life with Michael Jackson, and knowing that no matter how old you are, Michael Jackson will still be Michael Jackson. And this was why its was so strange that Jackson is no more. He was timeless, and not of an era, and in this was he actually became his icon, Peter Pan.

I must admit, that as i sat on the couch watching the various videos play through from the eighties onward, a tear did creep into my eye for the sense of loss, not of a musician or a celebrity, but of a part of my youth that he so strongly represented.